


Swagger in a Suit

by ghostofgatsby



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Gen, Jazz Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 09:30:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4258266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofgatsby/pseuds/ghostofgatsby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the height of the afternoon, in the heart of Las Vegas, three music producers sit in their office building, crowded around today’s paper. The entertainment section has a blown-up, grey picture of a man in a suit and tie, looking away from the photographer disinterestedly.<br/>The shortest of the trio clears his throat and reads the headline out in a questionable tone. “Swinging Singer Sips To Be Crowned King of Scat?”<br/>“King of scat? More like king of shat, am I right?” Smith growls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swagger in a Suit

**Author's Note:**

> I was at work and came across books about the jazz era and swing music. Being a fan, I happened to think that there's actually a few conductors and singers that have names alluding to royalty. (Count Basie; Duke Ellington, for example) Which made me think of jazz as some regal club.  
> And then of course, I thought of Sips.  
> Thus, this little AU was born.  
> I've been working a lot, and trying to finish the next UMY fic and something else to tide you over before/between that and the next one, but when you work 10 hrs a day 5+ days a week...it's rough going. I churned this out immediately after work, and then edited and posted when I got up, so if the editing is sparse that’s why. I’m not entirely happy with it but it’s got enough style to hold it's own, I think =P.
> 
> cw: cursing as is common of Shatfilms
> 
> I wrote the lyrics myself, and I wish I could sing and record them so you knew what it sounded like in my head, but I can't.  
> What I _can_ give you is a playlist! An hour long appreciation playlist of The Rat Pack, Bing Crosby, and a few others, because I can't stop adding songs until I'm satisfied. Just mash “Baby, It's Cold Outside”, “Volare”, “Ain't That A Kick In The Head”; “That's Life” together and you'd get pretty close to what I imagine Sips’ singing style is. Swing/jazz music styles lasted for a surprising amount of time, so I've tried to blend a little early and a little late swing music.  
>  https://open.spotify.com/user/ghostofgatsby/playlist/5oPGdTtLptglxvC4lFGxCt  
> tracklist: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/10/18/swagger-in-a-suit-playlist/
> 
> want to reblog? https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/10/18/swagger-in-a-suit-ghostofgatsby/

In the height of the afternoon, in the heart of Las Vegas, three music producers sit in their office building, crowded around today’s paper. The entertainment section has a blown-up, grey picture of a man in a suit and tie, looking away from the photographer disinterestedly.

The shortest of the trio clears his throat and reads the headline out in a questionable tone. “Swinging Singer Sips To Be Crowned King of Scat?”

“King of scat? More like king of shat, am I right?” Smith growls.

Trott continues reading.

“His first album, titled ‘The Real Guy, The Best Guy’ is on it’s third week on the Billboard Top 100. His singles ‘I Don’t Give Two Shits’ and ‘Big Money, Big Women, Big Fun’ are at number one and number five on this month's Top Songs. Critics commend his vocals, calling him ‘the love child of the Rat Pack’ and ‘the Canadian crooner.’”

“Who the fuck writes these?” Ross asks. “The wording is atrocious.”

“Who the fuck knows.” Smith mumbles.

“Who the fuck cares, now shut up and let me read.” Trott sighs, picking up where he got cut off. “Sips has scored quite a few headliners at various casinos here in Las Vegas. His success and easy-going scat singing style have many people wondering- what comes next? Another album seems to be in the works, but Sips will need a new record deal before he can grace the recording studio once again. His first album was signed with the now defunct B&D Records. ‘I don’t fucking care who I sign with, as long as they let me do what I want.’ Sips was quoted saying at his last performance. ‘We’ll see who can give me the biggest paycheck.’”

“He sounds like a sleazebag.” Smith sneered. “Are you really so certain we should sign him, Trott?”

“No, but that’s why we’re going to the Sands tonight. We’ll see his show and make a decision then and there.” Trott folds the newspaper back up and sets it on his desk. “If this guy is what he claims to be- the best- then we have to snatch him up before our competition does.”

“Too right.” Ross agrees, clapping his business associate, and friend, on the shoulder. “We’ll offer him a deal he can’t refuse.”

 

* * *

  
The room at the Sands that night is packed. Smoke clouds the air and the people talk wildly amongst themselves, fanning their faces in the heat. It was a good thing Trott had made reservations earlier and gotten them a table near the front. They were close enough to the stage, but not too close to the orchestral pit: it was the perfect vantage point to watch Sips.

Minutes later, the lights dim, and the crowd falls into hushed appreciation.

“ _Ladies and gentlemen!”_ The sprightly voice chirps over the intercom. “The moment you’ve been waiting for has arrived!”

The band starts up a roll off and fanfare.

“ _T_ _he one, the only, the real guy, the best guy, it’s Sips!_ ”

The crowd cheers, and the man himself waltzes through the curtain and up towards the microphone stand at center stage. He muffles a cough with a fist, hooks his thumbs in his pockets and steps so close to the mic his stubble grazes the felt-covered head.

 _“Hey_ ,” Sips drawls with a lazy grin. “How’s everybody doing tonight?”

The crowd whoops and Sips laughs.

“I’m doing pretty well myself, actually. Thanks for asking.” He slouches a bit to the left and peers down at the orchestra in the pit.

“You boys doing alright down there?” Sips asks, looking concerned and drawing a laugh from the crowd. “The war’s over, you know. I won’t tell them you hid down there for five years if you don’t.”

Trott chuckles, looks over at his companions. Smith is frowning and Ross is emotionless. He turns back to Sips with a roll of his eyes.

Sips looks up at the crowd and points a thin finger around. “Oh, you know what...wait a minute.” He mock winces. “ _They_ might say something. Somebody will, I know you’re all nosy. Hollywood vacationers, always looking for blackmail.”

The crowd laughs again.

“Shit, then. Might as well get this show on the road, eh?” Sips asks, righting his posture and taking ahold of the mic stand. “Let’s start with our number one.”

A few seconds pass and the band kicks into gear with a flourish of horns. Sips taps his off hand against his leg, and starts to sing.

“ _I don’t give two shits._

 _No, I don’t give two craps._  
  
_Doesn’t matter to me, if you stay or leave, just get-out-and-don’t come back!”_

The horns volley back and forth, repeating Sips’ phrasing in the chorus.

“ _I don’t give two shits._

_Pack your bags and go._

__It’s you or it’s me, and it’s def’_ \- _ nit _ely not-me, so come on pack your bags and_ go-o-o-o.” He draws out the last note, and the horns kick back in to play the chorus while Sips scats.

“Bop, buh ba duh bap, badapah, dapah duh da bap ba buh...

 _“ Doesn’t matter to me if you stay or you leave, just get-out-pack-your-bags-and_ go-o-o-o...”

 

“He’s pretty good!” Ross leans over and yells in Trott’s ear. “What are you thinking?”

“I like ‘em!” Trott says loudly with a grin. “He’s got style.”

Sips certainly has swagger. His number one song ends, and the crowd erupts into cheers and applause.

Ross leans away from Trott and taps Smith on the shoulder. “What do you think, Smith? Good?”

“I think we should listen to another song.” Smith scoffs. “The shows’ not over yet.”

 

Sips takes his time, chatting with the crowd and the orchestra below him. He’s very much a people pleaser, with his sharp little grin oozing charm.

He sings another song, his number five hit.

“ _Big money, big women, big_ f-un. What _could possibly go_ wr-ong?

Throwing cash through the street, wearing gold that’s tres chic, got millions and miles to se-e-e!

 _There’s nothing better than piles of_ money, _just a whole lotta green to be_ had,

 _spent on_ hook-ers _and_ whisk-ey, flashy cars with bright high-beams,

 _cocaine, fine dinners, and_ wine.

 _Big money, big women, big_ f-un. What _could possibly go_ wr-ong?

 _Just a night with the crew, sippin’ in on some ‘Dew, got the whole world at my_ fe-e-et.

_You gotta have a couple of gals, just a-smiling as they travel the path,_

_to the booth at the back where we’ll talk and we’ll laugh._

_There’s nothing quite as fun as_ tha-a-at, oh...”

 

“What should we offer him?” Trott yells over the roaring crowd at Ross.

“A lot. You heard the last song. Big money!” Ross throws his hands up in the air and shakes them like he’s doing jazz hands.

“We’re not giving him a dime until we hear the entire set!” Smith speaks up. He downs the rest of his whiskey and wipes the back of his mouth with his hand. “A couple of numbers on the billboard doesn’t mean shit. He’s gotta have something that lasts, and all I see is cheap over-confidence.”

Trott laughs. “You’re just mad because he does it better than you!”

 

“ _That’s life,_

_you gotta go where it goes, that’s life, eh?_

_You gotta keep on_ , _because who knows when the tide’s a-bout to_ tu-u-rn?

_That’s life,_

_because when day turns to dusk, things’ll be how they are-_

_just the_ sa-a-me.

 _That’s life, eh? And it’s_ all just a game.”

 

“Well, Smith. Have you made your decision?”

Smith taps his fingers against his empty glass, in time with the beat of the band.

“Okay.” He sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe he’s not so bad.”

“You’re on board, then?” Ross asks, looking from Sips to each of his business partners in turn. “We’re going to offer him the deal?”

 

“I have one last song for you tonight.” Sips says with a small smile. The crowd groans, and Sips raises his hand placatingly. “I know, I know, it’s disappointing. But- if you like the music, you can buy my album. I’m sure I’ll have another show soon, and I’ll see you there if I do, right?” He laughs and states how he feels with the title of his last song. “I’m not going to say I’m sorry, because I’m not.”

 

“ _I_ _’m not sorry for what I said, because I_ _meant it_ _._

 _I’m not sorry for what I did, because it-wasn’t-a_ -mist-a-a-ke.

_So don’t say that I’m wrong, don’t say-that-I’m-dishonest._

_Don’t say that I’m not telling the_ truth.

 __The truth is I’m not-apologizing to__ -you.

 _If I did it’d-be-a-lie_ , and _I’m not-that kind-of_ _-_ guy:

 _I’m not_ going _to say I’m sorry because I’m_ not.”

 

Trott, Smith, and Ross weave their way through the group of reporters at the front of the stage. Sips answers a few questions and then starts strolling towards backstage.

“Excuse me, Sips? Could we have a word?” Ross calls out, pushing Trott in front of him when a spot opens up for them to move to the stairs Sips is descending.

“Sure, how can I help you boys?” Sips looks the three of them up and down.

“Hat Productions, at your service.” The shortest of the trio reaches out to shake Sips’ hand. “I’m Trott, and these are my associates, Smith and Ross.”

“Hat Productions, eh? Pleasure to meet you.” Sips smirks. “What can I do for you?”

“We know you’re looking for a label, and we’re looking for another class act.” Smith says with a grin.

“You’ve got quite the voice.” Trott compliments. “We’re thinking you might fit that bill.”

“Interesting...” Sips drawls, smiling. “How much are you offering?”

“What do you say we strike up a deal, perhaps somewhere quieter over a round of drinks?” Ross asks, gesturing towards the backstage.

“I like how you think.”

“Sipsy, _baby_!” A voice calls over the chattering crowd. “What a show!”

Xephos, the fucking head-honcho of Yogscast Radio, strides up to Sips with a big smile on his face. Over the past few months the Yogs, as they were known, had been signing musicians to their production label. They were becoming a big rival for the Hats in the music industry.

The man walks up to Sips like he’s an old friend, and roughly shakes the singer’s shoulder. “You really got the crowd cheering at the end, you bastard.”

“That’s _magnificent_ bastard, Xephos.” Sips grins. “Why don’t you go fetch me a drink, I’m parched.”

“But we gotta talk business, don’t we?” Xephos asks, leaning in closer. “You’re up for grabs for a new record deal, after all.”

Trott coughs loudly. “I’d hate to interrupt,” He says insincerely. “But we were talking to him first.”

“Yeah Xephos, fuck off.” Smith spits. “We called him first.”

“Finders keepers.” Ross smirks.

Xephos scowls at the Hats. “I don’t think so, in fact, I think the three of you should-”

“Come on, Xeph, go get me a drink.” Sips laughs and pats the rival producer on the back. “Let me have a chat with these boys, eh? They got to me first after all. Might as well see what they have to offer.”

“But-” Xephos protests.

“Go on, scram! Bring me back a ‘Dew, and a round for these lads while your at it!”

Sips shoos Xephos away and leads the Hats through the Sands’ back-hallways, to his dressing room. It’s a tiny, cramped little office, but has two couches sitting across from each other. The singer takes one and the Hats take the other with the coffee table between them.

“We’ll boys, lay it on me.” Sips grins and loosens his tie. “What’ll the payout be?”

Hat Productions proposes the deal, explaining the contract in a quick but efficient manner.

“What do you think of that? Sound good?” Trott asks. He eyes the drinks someone had brought in for them, but hesitates. He’ll wait to celebrate or despair until after he hears Sips’ decision.

Sips leans back in his chair, takes a sip of his Mountain Dew and sighs. “You know what boys...” He says, setting his glass down with a clink. “I think that sounds absolutely fantastic.”

“Really? You do?” Ross stammers, surprised at the lack of a counter-offer.

“Yeah. I’ve heard of you three before. You do good work. I know I can trust you to let me do whatever the fuck I want.”

Trott lets out the breath he’d been holding, ecstatic. “That’s it then? You’ll sign?”

The singer nods. “Just hand me a pen and consider it done.”

They scramble to put the contract in front of Sips before he can change his mind. Sips signs and dates and the Hat trio grin at each other in barely silenced glee.

Sips picks up his Mountain Dew again and salutes the three with bemused smirk. “To a beautiful partnership.”

Hat Productions takes their drinks from the coffee table and toast along with Sips.

“To big money.” Trott says cheekily.

“To big women.” Smith adds with a smirk.

“To big fun.” Finishes Ross.

Sips chuckles and shakes his head, raising his glass once more before drinking again. “May the music be as raucous as the laughter.”

 

 


End file.
